Triviality in Artistic Form

Reflection

2005-11-08T17:52:00.000-05:00

I am not new to the concept of weblogs. Like many of our fellow students out there, I have a few blogs established in my name out there already. The only two I remember creating and still occasionally fiddle around with would be my Xanga (username: turtlebites) and MySpace, which I loathe. The idea of creating my own blog was, therefore, quite exciting to me. A chance to show off my wild internet skills and taste in decor. Well, the template was not HTML, or anything I could figure out, so I decided for the meantime to keep this default template as it is.

The best part about a weblog is that we (the Creative Writing students of Ms. Tholen's first and fourth hour classes) can easily access one another's literary masterpieces and comment accordingly. The hard part about this is...finding those students. Since we don't know eachother's usernames and/or addresses, I will probably have to wait until school tomorrow to really start commenting. Luckily my friend Ashley is a bugger when it comes to these sort of things, so she found me, so I could find her.

One thing I like about Blogger is the fact that we can have more than one blog on the same account. That means I could use this to create another blog, not for Creative Writing, but for whatever I want. I like how the blogs are set up, with idiot-proof post-finders and archives. The profile is unique and detailed, and altogether is something I could never do on Xanga. The only thing I think I dislike the most about Blogger is the difficulty of customizing the blogs. Perhaps it is not idiot proof enough for me or maybe I am just worn out after staring at the computer screen for the past hour or so, but I can't get this to look exactly as I want it to. Then again, I don't know what I want it to exactly look like so it'll be left alone for now.

So long Ms. Tholen and all the Creative Writing students! I hope to still see you around and have enough elective spots next year to take Creative Writing II!

Journal Entry #3

2005-11-08T15:15:00.000-05:00

(From October 10, 2005)

Shards of glass
lying on the sidewalk
Where they come from
Why they're there
I don't know
But don't they
Sparkle?

------------------------------

If God made each of us perfect
If we all had a purpose in life
Why do I feel
So flawed
inadequate
When do I see
this Purpose He planned for me?
I guess I'll hold on
And try not to destroy
What I have

------------------------------

A butterfly's wings
So delicate and gentle
Can shred on a nail
The most lovely form of nature
To help a creature fly.

Journal Entry #2

2005-11-08T14:57:00.000-05:00

(From October 17, 2005)

The worst thing about it was the leftover juice and gravy that slopped around on the plates when you bent to pick them up. Serving and bussing at the annual lutefisk dinner had sounded like a good way for my confirmation group to earn a community service point, at the time we signed up.

It didn't hit me that I was about to spend a miserable three hours in the Fellowship Hall until the smell hit me. That damp, fish, sour, bitter odor that is produced by the cooking of lutefisk, if it was cooked at all. I tried to console myself by remembering that all I had to do was set out clean plates and serve drinks, but the experience proved to be less than bearable.

Watching the elderly shove forkful after forkful of pasty white chunks into their mouths, fish juice and gravy dripping down their chins. The overpowering smells of bitter coffee, pungeant dressing, and just plain stinky fish made me long for an open window, while watching people get for second, third, and even fourth portions of lutefisk! I was seriously considering conversion to Catholicism by my first table-clean up. There is nothing quite as nauseating as unsticking two plates from each other and using dirty forks to scrape the excess fish into the trash, and then getting gravy all over your hands from gripping the edge of the plate.

Next, I decided to switch from bussing to serving cookies. This involves walking around the tables with a heavy tray and offering one to a potential consumer. Well, lowering that tray to a height that is suitable for an old lady to see is agonizely painful on the arms. And oh! So many choices! The ladies must ponder and ponder until you want to scream JUST PICK OUT A DAMN COOKIE YOU OLD GEEZER! But no, I always smiled politely and moved quickly, for none of them seemed to understand the phrase, "One dessert per diner."

Journal Entry #1

2005-11-08T14:51:00.000-05:00

(From October 16, 2005)

Hi. (Who are you?)
Why, thank you. (How nice.)
Um, no they're not contacts. (Dork.)
Well, yeah I wear them but...(Groan.)
I made it. (Do you like it?)
Um, a long time...(What do you think?)
It's a bat. (Isn't it pretty?)
I think it's pretty.
No, I'm not goth...(Do I honestly look like it?)
Because...(It's PRETTY!)
Yes, I listen to rock.
No, it's not angry music. (I dislike you at the moment.)
It has passion! (You're so close minded!)
Yeah, this is my book.
It's for Phy. Ed. (Here it comes...)
Yes, I'm a junior. (Brace yourself...)
Because I couldn't take it last year. (Think of something believable!)
Medical reasons. (None of your business.)
Medical reasons.
Medical reasons.
No, I don't have a boyfriend. (And I'm not looking)
Why? (Why?)
Because I don't need one.
Um, no I'm in NHS. (I'm smarter than you!)
Yes, I teach Sunday School. (I hate kids.)
Lutheran.
No, lutefisk is disgusting. (I'd like to take some and shove it in your face.)
Yes, I have a dog. (I LVOE MY PUPPY!)
Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.
Smaller than a Cocker, no not like the car. (Not the first time I've heard that.)
Lucy. (LUCY!)
Well, I gotta go. (You are stupid. Stop talking to me.)
Bye. (Thank the Lord.)

Three Poems

2005-11-08T14:42:00.000-05:00

What My Parents Taught Me

You can reach for the stars,
but you'll probably pull a muscle.
Hand-me-down clothes won't kill you,
but your social health will sicken
Adults don't discriminate,
they hate all young people
Spinich is good for you,
Your opinion doesn't matter.
Sticks and stones will break your bones,
but wounds from words don't heal.
Silence is golden,
No one wants to know what you think.
Violence doesn't solve anything,
but talking solves less.
Never take candy from strangers,
it's better to stick to the familiar.
Love it like a red, red rose.
It dies with the seasons.

A Window

One window is all I need
To see the world ahead of me
To judge and wonder and contemplate
What is beyond that window?

Mirror Image

We did it
In front of the mirror
How can
One pane of glass
Be such
A pain in the ass?
It lies to us
We suck in our bellies
And pinch at our cheeks
We see nothing but jelly
Our heads seem mishapen
I would just like to know
If the mirror calls me ugly
How does my self-esteem grow?
But then he smiled
The mirror took it too far
No inanimate object
Can tell how beautiful you are
He had this look in his eye
It felt warm but a little queer
Then he leaned down and kissed me
In front of the mirror.

Fiction Best Write

2005-11-08T14:38:00.000-05:00

Soaked

Aileen could hear the constant hum of girls’ chatter even before she opened the door to the pool deck. Even though she was clad only in a swimsuit and her hair was still dripping from the showers, Aileen was pleasantly warm in the thick, steamy atmosphere. The gentle trickle of pool water sloshing in the gutters was familiar and soothing. She lifted her nose and sniffed, though she didn’t need to do so to be aware of the constant odor of chlorine. Aileen learned to appreciate the smell, as a pool without enough chlorine was usually disgusting to swim in, and the other chemical commonly used in pools (bromine) was itchy and salty tasting.
Nervously she took her first steps onto the warm tile of the deck. A large rectangle of aqua blue was the first thing to catch her attention. It was striped with lane lines sporting the purple and gray colors of Clarity High School. “Mustang Swimming and Diving” was painted in peeling violet letters across the far white wall. In a town famous for its large lake and clean beaches, it was a wonder more attention wasn’t paid to the high school swim teams. Through experience, Aileen knew that not many found watching people swim back and forth in a pool very exciting, but to her it was everything. She hoped that by joining the swim team she’d get to know some older people and other girls her age as she entered the high school as a freshman. Well, at least her father hoped she would. To Aileen, a pool was a pool and any excuse to swim and hone her skills was good enough for her.
But as she neared the group of fifty or so girls on the bleachers, chatting and laughing together, she wasn’t so sure. Everybody seemed to have somebody, or their own little group, to talk to. No one gave her a second look, and Aileen felt hopelessly lost until she heard a high pitched “Ail-lee! Over here over here!” Waving her arms (in a way that could be regarded as humorous but at the moment was socially crippling) was Kayla, from behind a group of girls. Some of the upperclassmen gave her annoyed looks, while others snickered and whispered to their friends. Aileen tried to ignore them and hurried over to her friend, only to find her path blocked by a tall, stocky woman in a white T-shirt and too-big sweatpants.
Stern brown eyes looked Aileen up and down before the figure barked, “Freshy, you’re late!” in a deep, barely feminine voice. Aileen froze for an instant, until the blonde-haired woman violently pointed to the bleachers, and Aileen then darted over to take a seat. “Perhaps you’re not familiar with my swim team dear,” the coach addressed Aileen, but her words were for the entire team, “But when I run the sport, I expect every one of you to arrive on time and be suited up on the bleachers at precisely four o’clock.” The woman pointed to the clock above their heads for emphasis, her ponytail bobbing so vigorously Aileen wondered how the navy blue scrunchy could hold it in place.
“Punctuality. Commitment. I expect that from all of you, especially the upperclassmen,” she nodded her head at the older girls, “It’s your job to show the freshmen how things are done around here.” The coach strode up and down the bleachers until she stood in front of Aileen and the rest of the younger girls. “For those of you who don’t know, I am Coach Connie. From this point forward you will refer to me as ‘Coach’ or ‘Ms. Erickson’ but under no circumstances may you call me Connie-until you earn the privilege,” she said with a wink towards the veteran swimmers, who grinned back. Oh, how they loved the hardships freshmen were always put through! Aileen, for her part, didn’t think much of “Coach’s” speech. She had received many of them like it throughout her years on and off different teams. The only thing that bothered her was the apparent fact that Ms. Erickson had no sense of humor. Even Coach Bill had cracked a joke once in a while. Aileen paid little attention to the rest of the speech until she heard Coach bark at them to get in the water.
“What do you think?” whispered Kayla as they moved with that mass of girls towards the pool.
Aileen shrugged. “Of Coach Connie? Nothing we haven’t dealt with before, I think she talks more than she needs to.”
Kayla giggled. “That’s for sure,” she said, rolling her eyes as Coach began yapping out a warm-up for the older girls.
“All right, kiddie-pops,” drawled Connie as she strolled over to the group of eight or so freshmen, huddled in a group. “You get these two lanes here in the shallow end. Well what are you waiting for? Get in!” There was a frantic scruffling as girls struggled to put on their swim caps and adjust their goggles. Others yelped as they slid into the cold water. Aileen smiled to herself as she watched some girls-completely new to swimming-stood there dumbfounded, wondering how in heck their little rubber caps were supposed to fit over their heads. Coach was oblivious to this though, as she patrolled the lanes in the deeper end of the pool, making sure no one was “slacking,” as she put it.
Kayla kindly offered to help some of the girls, as Aileen bent over to wet her own cap in the pool. Just as she was stretching it over her head, the cap snapped. Aileen held the two pieces of rubber in both hands, silently cursing. It was an old cap though, and she had extras in the locker room. Aileen hustled back and pulled one out of her swim bag, after much digging and searching. By the time she had the new cap on and was out on the pool deck, all the other girls were already in the water, and Coach was waiting for her.
“Where were you Freshy?” she snapped, hands on hips.
“My cap-“ began Aileen, stumbling for words.
“Difficulties with putting on your cap is no excuse for taking up so much time!” Coach practically shrieked into Aileen’s face. “There are plenty of competent girls out here you could have asked for help-but no, you decided to do it your own way! Well, here on the Mustang Swim Team, we are just that-a TEAM! If one individual can’t be successful in such a simple task, then the whole group suffers! An extra five hundred yards for the newbies today,” she added with a smirk of satisfaction.
Humiliated and beat red, Aileen jumped into the nearest lane and tried not to look at the other girls. She wasn’t really bothered by the extra five hundred yards, it was how Coach didn’t seem to think she was a competent swimmer at all. She thinks I’m just a beginner, Aileen thought, troubled. She’s not even giving me a chance.
None of the other girls spoke to or even looked at Aileen for the rest of practice that day. She was the screw-up, she realized. She will be the butt of all of Coach’s complaints for the rest of the year. What a way to start out high school, she thought to herself.
The practice was easy. Too easy, Aileen thought, annoyed. This was for beginners, and she was no beginner. Soon she began feeling antsy. She was the last person in her lane, and she had to deliberately slow down to avoid running into the girl in front of her during sets. Finally, during their two hundred cool-down at the end of practice, Aileen decided to just up and pass her. The girl wouldn’t move out of her way, however, and Aileen just barely squeezed by. Unfortunately, the other girl was kicked in the process.
“Ow!” she yelped, as she stood up in the chest deep water, clutching her cheek.
“FRESHY!” screeched Coach from the deck. “Back to the wall!” Before she even had a chance to apologize, Aileen glided back to the wall, where she lingered under Coach’s angry gaze.
“So…you think you can just pass up anybody during practice, do you? Want to show the girls up because you think you’re so fast? Well, you can show the whole team! Clear lane three, please!” she cried out to the girls in that lane. “Freshy here has a Discipline Swim!”
The girls laughed and cleared the pool. Discipline Swims, evidently, were a hit amongst the team. Nervously, Aileen pulled herself out of the pool and walked, still dripping, up to lane three. The air didn’t feel so warm anymore, and her stomach clenched with nerves.
Coach smirked at her, and gestured for Aileen to get up on the block. “You have a minute and twenty seconds to swim one hundred yards, if you don’t make it, you get to clean up the pool deck and locker room for a week, and also do your choice of one hundred sit ups or fifty push ups. Usually it’s a minute-ten, but I’ll go easy on you.” The veterans snickered, as it was well known few first time swimmers got under a minute-forty their first time swimming a hundred.
“On my signal,” stated Coach, a stopwatch in one hand, the other bringing her whistle to her mouth. Aileen crouched forward on the block, gripping the edge with her fingers. Some of the girls muttered in surprise, no one had taught the freshmen yet how to properly start a race.
“Ready….” TWEET! went the whistle, and Aileen was off.
She kicked as hard as she could, her skinny pale arms pulling the water around her, her cap nearly coming off in the progress. All the frustration and humiliation she endured that day she determined to burn off in that last swim.
On her last yard she thrust out her arm and ducked her head for a well-trained finish. Gasping for air and spitting highly chlorinated water from her nose and mouth, Aileen glanced up at the faces around her, and was surprised to see them staring down at her quietly, and with respect. No one made a sound. From the water, Aileen looked up at Coach. She wasn’t even looking at Aileen, but Ms. Erickson gazed thoughtfully at the stopwatch in her hand. “Fifty-three thirty-seven,” she mused aloud.
Not my best, thought Aileen as she hauled herself out of the pool. Water dripped everywhere as she pulled off her goggles with a sucking-sound. The rest of the team remained silent, and even appeared slightly awed as they backed away from Aileen with newfound respect.
“Everyone to the showers!” hollered Coach. “Practice is over!” As the girls filed off to the locker room, Aileen went back to her old lane to retrieve her water bottle Her face was flushed for the second time that afternoon, but for a different reason. Aileen’s arms flopped at her sides like noodles and her lungs ached with every breath. She didn’t want to see Coach while she was in this condition, but as she turned towards the locker room she glanced over her shoulder. Coach was watching her, and as they made eye contact she nodded with approval.
“You’ll do, Freshy,” was all she said. “You’ll do."

Poetry Best Writes

2005-11-08T14:31:00.000-05:00

Dear Lucy

You are
My closest friend.
I can’t help but to smile
Whenever I see you look at me.
To see you happy
And practically wet yourself
For joy
When you see me.
That is what warms my heart.
You always want to be
By my side
Or at least someone’s,
But never alone.
To see you run from me,
To greet strangers,
It hurts a little.
And I always have to chase you
To get you back
Can’t you just
Stay?
You are unique
Girl with hairy legs,
Always wanting to sleep.
And to hear you breathe
Is the most comforting music
To my ears.
My puppy, Lucy.

Shine On

Death always wins
Over life
Death is forever
Life is but a fleeting
Flash in the night
But such a flash!
Bright sparks of yellow
Or blue, or white, or red
Different but
Each beautiful
Some sparkle, some glitter
Some steadily shine
Some shimmer
Some flicker, but
Always do they shine on.
And when the light is gone
Darkness is still
Not imminent, but
The memories and hope of a new light
Shine on.

My Friend Polly

Polly wants a cracker
A parrot at the zoo
That child is a slacker
She has no food for you.
Stick a coin in the slot
Little crumbs spill out
There’s no such thing as a lot
So bratty children pout.
Parrot is quite cheerful
She gets a lot to eat
The children are not fearful
For parrots don’t eat meat.

Nonfiction Best-Write

2005-11-08T14:27:00.000-05:00

My Forenoon Gown

I was never fond of dresses or skirts, particularly in early March, when the air was still chilly and damp from snow and rain. It was with great reluctance that I would remove my street clothes and slip on the off-white gown, fumbling with the complicated ties at my neck and waist.

I hated that gown, loathed it, in fact. Whenever I went to a session, I complained to my mother about it; about going, about the need to go, and about how my gown never fit right anyway. I remember the sleeves were too big, but the garment stopped just at my knees. I was covered every where else except for the middle of my back, which was open. I felt self-conscious the first few times I put it on, for when I looked in a mirror I saw a child in adult clothes staring back at me. I fought with the contradictory feelings wearing the garment gave me. Just as much as it made me feel exposed to the world it constricted me as well. It was a uniform of sorts, it allowed administrators to pick me out of a crowd, it separated me from the common. I couldn’t hide in it, I couldn’t leave the building with it, I was confined to the indoors. Still, I felt naked. Thankfully I was allowed to wear underwear with my garish attire. The gown exposed my ill body for all to see; betraying everything I had tried to hide.

As I waited to be inspected, I shivered in my seat and examined the detail of this unfamiliar apparel. Made of cheap, thin cotton, it had seen many girls like me before. The stiff, quick-dried cloth and off-white color held testimony to that. It smelled like detergent, with a tang of sickness and disease. Physical soil they could remove, but the essence of fear and anger could never be washed away. Just by that smell I knew this was what past girls in my situation had felt, just as sure as I was feeling them then. Perhaps the gown was trying to add a bit of cheer to its dismal settings. It was decorated with navy blue snowflakes, large and small ones alternating throughout the fabric. I didn’t appreciate the embroidery, since it only served to remind me how cold the room was, and how I wasn’t allowed to don a sweatshirt.

Though there were many times when I had to wear the gown, one specifically stood out in my memory. It was just another appointment; another twenty minutes or so spent shivering in the office while educated folks whispered with each other in a separate room. I was inspecting the stitches in my gown, and self-consciously feeling the open space where my back was exposed. Just as I was trying to adjust the ties, a doctor walked in, followed by my parents. They held each other’s hands and smiled, playing the part of Darby and Joan. The doctor smiled at me and began speaking, but I barely remember her words. Where the gown had once hung loose, it suddenly tightened around my body. With each word from her mouth my crossed arms were suddenly in handcuffs, the gown itself turned into a hot orange jumpsuit. I left her office heavily guarded, guided to my new prison.

Here everyone wore their gowns between 6 and 7 AM. Until then, we were a relatively happy bunch. We were just another group of teenagers hanging out, getting school work done, talking about friends, music, movies, the stuff normal people talk about. Then the nurses would come out and we were suddenly patients. Whenever one saw someone else in their hospital gown they would avert their eyes. The gown served as a constant reminder of why we were here, how close to death some of us were, how some would leave in a few weeks, while others would be restricted for months at a time.

It wasn’t until my body began to heal that I made peace with the gown. Yes, it was ugly. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Yes, it was a symbol of my ill health and inability to do what “normal” kids do, but it became more than that. It was a symbol of healing, health, and caring. My family cared enough to get me checked out when I was too ignorant to think much about my ailing body. I often think of my experience at the hospital and it is never without a thought or two to my patient garb. Hopefully I will never wear it again.